


The Thames is not a river of roses

by tea_for_lupin



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_for_lupin/pseuds/tea_for_lupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poirot criticises Hastings' inability to speak French properly; Hastings criticises Poirot's Gallic effusiveness. How can they reconcile their differences?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thames is not a river of roses

**Author's Note:**

> Combining two prompts: one from [aphilologicalbatman](http://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com/) (Hastings tries to speak French to Poirot; it goes poorly), and one from [amistories](http://amistories.tumblr.com/) (Poirot and Hastings being playful together, and in particular Hastings loosening up a bit).
> 
> It's ridiculous. I know. Enjoy.

I jabbed a triumphant finger at the page of the latest detective story I was reading. ‘Ha! I know you disdain them, Poirot, but never let it be said that there’s nothing edifying in a mystery novel!’

Poirot looked up from the book he himself was perusing, peering over the top of his pince-nez. ‘And how is that, _mon cher_?’

‘Why, this one contains a passage from Voltaire, in the original—’ and I rattled it off to him, in what I thought was a fairly accomplished manner—although the quotation was complex, and I admitted to myself that I did not, perhaps, comprehend all of its finer nuances. No doubt they would become clearer once the plot was more advanced. 

Rather than acknowledging the correctness of my point of view, Poirot instead seemed to derive tremendous amusement from my rendition of the French passage. His green eyes twinkled merrily and his moustaches twitched, but when I asked him, somewhat crossly, just what was so funny, he simply shook his head. 

‘ _Mon ami_ , the English public schools, no doubt they serve their purpose,’ he said cheerfully, reaching across and patting my arm, ‘but in their teaching of _la langue française_ , they lack sorely.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ I answered, feeling rather hurt. ‘My command of the language is certainly adequate, even if I don’t speak it with quite the same degree of—of emotional flourish as you.’

‘ _Mais ça, c’est la musique de la langue que manque, là!_ ’ Poirot wagged his finger at me. ‘My poor Hastings, what am I to do with you? You speak French as if it were a painful duty when it should flow from your tongue like a river of roses!’

‘Really, Poirot,’ I said, flushing, ‘as if any sensible person could actually speak in such a nonsensical way!’

He raised his eyebrows, but if he was about to reply he seemed to think better of it. Instead he cocked his head on to one side and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘In truth, do you think so, _mon ami_? That those who speak French—that _I_ —speak in a fashion most absurd?’ 

I saw immediately that I had offended him, but I was still feeling put out myself, so I answered him a little more acerbically than I usually would. ‘No, of course not, Poirot—not as a general rule. Only—well, sometimes you are a bit over the top, you know.’

‘Over the top— _comment_?’

‘Er—’ I hesitated. ‘Well, a bit outrageous, overdone—that sort of thing.’

Poirot nodded, but no smile was forthcoming. ‘It is that I embarrass you?—I apologise, _mon cher_. I did not realise, before this moment, just how you perceived me. It is useful to me, from time to time, to play the foreigner—the fool, in fact! That you would consider me genuinely foolish, even when I am being only myself—that, I did not anticipate.’ He looked more deflated as I had ever seen him. ‘Good night, Hastings.’

I stared after him, too taken aback to even call out a good night of my own to his retreating form. Had I really distressed him so greatly? Or was he, as he so often put it, playing the comedy with me? But there had been not the slightest hint of light in his eyes; he had not even so much as pressed my hand as he took his leave, much less embraced me in his usual fashion. 

I had believed his confidence in himself to be completely unshakeable. I realised now that I had made a serious error of judgement, and wounded my dear friend deeply. 

Poirot did not stir even when I came at last to bed, though I doubted that he was asleep. Sick at heart, I lay awake for a long time myself, wondering how best to make amends.

***

The next morning, though neither of us referred to the uncomfortable incident of the night before, things felt strained between us. Poirot was unusually quiet at breakfast time, drinking his chocolate and opening his mail with scarcely a word, though I could see that at least two of the envelopes he received contained cheques, and one a letter several pages long, written in a bold hand on thick cream-coloured paper. I eyed it with interest, noting the crest of a high-class hotel at the top, but did not ask what its contents were.

‘The good Japp, he calls upon us this morning,’ Poirot said at last. ‘Will you attend him with me, _mon cher_ , or have you other business?’

‘I’m afraid that I do have, er, other business, Poirot,’ I said, putting down the newspaper. ‘As it turns out, I, er, have an old friend who’s in town today that I want to look up. Is that all right?’

He smiled at me as he rose, but it was a more tentative expression than I was used to seeing on his face. ‘But of course, _mon cher_. of course. I shall see you later in the day, then.’ He made as if to kiss the top of my head, as he often did when he had the chance—which, given the difference in our heights, was only when I was sitting down—but paused, and instead made me a more formal little bow. 

‘Poirot,’ I said, reaching out impulsively to catch his hand and wrap it firmly in my own. ‘I’m so sorry—look, I didn’t—’

‘Did not—what, Hastings?’

‘Mean what I said last night,’ I admitted. ‘Can you forgive me?’

Poirot cocked his head to one side in that characteristic gesture and regarded me thoughtfully. ‘I forgive you, my Hastings—but I also acknowledge that perhaps, for once, you are right! You have tolerated much in loving me! My effusions, my tastes (though surely you are not averse to all of them, as we have proven on multiple occasions), my ego—for yes, even I, Hercule Poirot, will confess that I have an ego!’ He puffed himself up a little and squeezed my hand. ‘Perhaps, _mon cher_ , it is time that I thought more of you. I shall moderate myself, I shall be less effusive, more English!’ 

I blinked. This declaration was the last thing I had expected. The more I considered it, it was actually the last thing I wanted. But there was Poirot looking to me—me!—for approval, so I said, a little weakly, ‘Er, all right then, old thing.’

This seemed to satisfy Poirot, and he did indeed kiss the top of my head lightly before heading to repair the damage done by breakfast to his moustaches. I sat for a few moments longer, contemplating with growing horror the idea of an anglicised Poirot. No, no, a thousand times no! Much as I was at times exasperated by his played-up foreignness, his displays of affection, his overweening pride: I realised with the suddenness of a thunderclap that given the chance I would not change a single thing about him.

Shaking my head, I rose from the table, gathering up my newspaper and the rich cream-coloured envelope that lay beneath it. It was time to put my plan into action.

 

***

Stopping first at my club, I placed a phone call; shortly after that I made my way to the luxurious lobby of the R— Hotel.

I had not been waiting long when a familiar voice hailed me, and I found myself in the voluptuous presence of the Countess Vera Rossakoff. Her hair was a shade of red never to be found in nature; it matched almost exactly her rich dress, where that could be seen through her habitual drapery of furs. I was embraced by a pair of white arms and a cloud of expensive scent. 

’Captain Hastings!’ she cried. ‘But it is a pleasure—a pleasure! Come upstairs, will you not? We shall have tea—you English, you adore the tea at all hours of the day. The little man—he does not accompany you?’

‘I’m afraid he doesn’t,’ I said, following in her expansive wake, ‘although he sends his regards, I am sure.’

She glanced over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow at me. ‘But I wrote to him today—for old times’ sake!’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Ah! He spurns me! That is something to which I do not take kindly!’

‘No, no,’ I assured her hastily, as she flung the door of her suite open and herself onto a chaise longue. ‘Not at all. In fact, I am positive that he was delighted to receive your letter, and is probably composing a reply at this very minute. I come on my own behalf, actually.’ 

At this point my courage nearly failed me, but I remembered the crestfallen look on Poirot’s face the night before and squared my shoulders. I had seen action in the war; I could most certainly face this, terrifying as the prospect was. Nonetheless, I had to clear my throat a couple of times, before I could speak as calmly as I wished to. ‘Countess, I am here to humbly request your help.’

I will draw a discreet veil over the events of the next few hours—events that were repeated at regular intervals over the next several days. The Countess swore to keep my secret, as indeed she did, even when she swept both Poirot and myself off to the Opera, where we spent the evening in the box of Lord M—, the Countess’ latest paramour. He was scarcely half her age—not that one could tell, precisely, what that age was—and I could not help shaking my head, wondering what designs she had upon the hapless young man. Point caught my look of disapproval and smiled, his own expression one of indulgence. But then he had always had a weakness for the flamboyant Countess. I felt a twinge of jealousy, and reminded myself of my plan.

For it was still very much needed. Over the few days since our unhappy contretemps Poirot had kept his word, and done his best to be less… well, less himself. He spoke less French; was restrained in his embraces, even at the most intimate moments; he used English idioms correctly—even when ‘playing the foreigner’ would have furthered his investigation into Japp’s latest case! It pained me greatly, and I also caught Japp looking at Poirot occasionally, as though either he or the world had gone mad. But I hid my feelings, as I thought, quite well, biding my time until I felt ready to put my scheme into action. 

***

My thought was this: to demonstrate to Poirot that not only did I appreciate his naturally exuberant nature, but that I too could be unreserved, could—to use Poirot’s own words—speak French as if it were a river of roses. It was imperative that I should speak in French, of course; the mere idea of trying to express myself in such an uninhibited fashion in English was ludicrous. To this end I had asked the Countess Rossakoff to assist me in rehearsing a short speech, giving her the impression—or so I devoutly hoped; the alternative was unthinkable—that it was for a case of Poirot’s, but that he was too busy to coach me himself. 

That evening we sat in companionable silence in the living room, Poirot with his tisane, and I with a small whiskey and soda, as I felt the need of something to bolster my nerves. After a little while I rose, and leaned against the mantelpiece above the neat little gas fire, as casually as I could; to my chagrin I found that my hands were trembling as I turned the pages of the book I was not really reading. 

‘I say, Poirot,’ I said, doing my best to sound natural,’listen to this.’

As he glanced up, I cleared my throat and began, with as much bravado and flourish as I could muster, ‘ _La puissance—la puissance d’un coup de l’oeil a été tellement , tellement maltraitée dans—_ ahem _—dans les histoires de—d’amour_ …Oh, dash it all, Poirot!’ I flung down the book, unable to continue, and buried my face in my hands for a moment in order to pull myself together. I felt a touch on my shoulder, and when I looked up, Poirot was standing in front of me, his face full of the most tremendous affection.

‘ _Mon cher amour_ ,’ was all that he murmured before he kissed me, rather more deeply and enthusiastically than had been the case recently.

‘I am awfully sorry, Poirot.’ I sighed. ‘I should never have insulted you so. Really, I wouldn’t have you any other way than as you are.’

Poirot shook his head at me sternly. ’But I—I, too, insulted you, and I make the apologies, a thousand times!’ And he demonstrated the extent of his contrition quite vigorously, much to our mutual satisfaction. When we paused for breath, he added, ‘To each other, let us each be no one but ourselves from this moment forward.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I agreed with relief. ‘Let’s do that.’

**Author's Note:**

> The full quote which Hastings begins to read out in French at the end runs thusly: "The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only."—Victor Hugo, _Les Misérables_


End file.
